I can’t even really pin down where I first heard the name Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. It might have been a casual mention from an acquaintance years back, or a passage in a book left unread, or even just a voice on a recording so grainy I could barely make it out. Names often emerge in this way, appearing without any formal introduction. They simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. A mug on the table beside me has become entirely cold, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. In any case, when he comes to mind, I am not occupied with formal teachings or accomplishments. I only think of the reverent silence that accompanies any discussion of him. That’s the most honest thing I can say, really.
I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. It is an understated power; a simple stillness in the air that changes the way people carry themselves. In his presence, one felt that he was never in a hurry. Like he was willing to stay in the uncomfortable parts of a moment until things finally settled. Or it could be that I am projecting; I am prone to such reflections.
A dim memory remains—possibly a video clip I once encountered— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. His sentences were separated by significant periods of silence. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember my impatience rising, only to be replaced by a sense of embarrassment. I am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. Still, he seemed to shoulder the burden of it without any ostentation. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I know that sounds a bit poetic, and I’m not trying to be. It is the primary image that persists in my thoughts.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live like that. Having others watch you for a lifetime, using your silence as their standard, or your way of taking meals, or your complete lack of reaction to things. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I continue to think that the word “respected” lacks the necessary depth. It is missing the correct texture; genuine respect can be a difficult thing. It is a heavy thing, making you improve your posture without even realizing why.
I am not attempting to define his character in these words. I would not be able to succeed in such an endeavor. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. The manner in which they influence reality quietly website and reappear in thought much later in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.